The Return
by Kaynara
Summary: Kara comes back to Galactica. This was written prior to season four, hence there are no angels.


The Return

"Take it to the brig," the Admiral said just after Kara's viper—sleek and gleaming—set down on Galactica's deck. After Kara, who was just as sleek, just as shiny-bright-real as her ship, climbed down from the cockpit and tugged her hair free from it tail and shook it and said his name: "Hi, Lee."

In the seconds that passed between the Old Man issuing the order and the marines positioning themselves to enforce it, Lee shouldered by the Chief and Cally, brushed past Helo, stunned dumb, and Sharon staring coolly.

"Just had to make an entrance," Lee said. He thought that was pretty good. He was glad she couldn't see his face, the tremble of his jaw. It wasn't very pilot-like.

His father moved forward.

"Step aside," he said, the words clunky and decidedly uncommanding on his thin lips. The admiral clearly took no pleasure in issuing this particular order. Not Kara, his eyes seemed to say. Anyone but Kara. She was like a daughter to him, Lee's almost-sister, and how frakked up was it that Lee once made love to her? Not as obscene as wanting to do it again. Woman or machine or some hybrid of the two, Lee didn't care, hadn't since the moment her viper appeared at his wing. He wanted to drag her from this room. Take her someplace dark and still and check every pulse point in her body just to feel the blood throb under his fingers.

"Son." His father cleared his throat. "Get out of the way."

"I'm not moving."

He spread his arms to shield her, sacrifice his body for hers. Not such a bad trade. What was he worth these days? He wasn't an officer anymore. He wasn't Apollo. He didn't know who or what she was, but then he didn't much care. At this moment, Lee knew one thing with perfect clarity: that he couldn't handle watching Kara die again. He was sick to death of watching her die. It was only right that she take a turn.

Not surprisingly, Kara had other ideas.

"Lee, it's okay," she whispered, and even now he reveled in the feel of her breath, warm and steady on the back of his neck.

He shivered and then crooked his head to stare back at her, incredulous.

"In what universe does this situation count as okay, Kara? The president wants to put you out the airlock," he added in case she'd missed that part.

"Probably," Kara agreed, "but she's not going to. At least not today."

"Are you all-knowing or just stupid?" Lee asked in a whisper.

"Trust me."

He believed her. Maybe he was the stupid one.

---

"I want you to see her."

Lee wiped his damp palms on his thighs, hidden beneath the line of the table. He felt like a boy who'd been caught in some forbidden behavior. Not a grown man, a married and divorced man with great accomplishments and even greater failures. Was it the military that made him into this person? This man-child constantly seeking approval, searching out the next order?

"I'm sorry?" Lee managed. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded rough and scratchy from disuse.

Adama didn't bother glancing up from the report strewn over his desk. Raising a hand to his face, he used thumb and forefinger to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Spend some time with her. See what she knows."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

Now his father did look up, censure in his gaze.

"You understand me. Talk to her."

Lee's expression hardened.

"So now it's her." For six days and nights, his world had been ruled by pronouns. He had never been one for words. Zak was the academic, the charmer. Lee—well, Lee flew spaceships.

Adama studied him from beneath arched gray brows. Lee prepared himself for a tirade—no yelling, not from his father. Just that damned, damning tone of his. Whiskey and disapproval. He was surprised by what came next.

"Do you want a drink, son?"

When Lee just shrugged, Adama rose, crossing the room with an odd stiffness. For the first time, Lee realized how much the past few years had aged his father. He was, finally, befitting of his nickname. But then, Lee felt older too.

Not wiser though.

They settled on the couch, with a good amount of space between them. The leather seat stuck to the backs of his legs as he shifted to accept the glass his father offered. Lee hadn't bothered to dress for this meeting, which was informal, involuntary. He felt a little ridiculous talking to the admiral in his workout shorts. If his father was bothered by the attire, he didn't say.

"Sorry it's just water." The admiral rolled his own glass between his hands. "I ran out of ambrosia some time ago."

Lee missed ambrosia lately. And oatmeal and cinnamon and new razors, straight from the package.

"Why'd you ask me here, Dad?"

"I already told you. I want you to talk to her."

Lee's hand fell away as he laughed—a hollow, rasping sound that wasn't him.

"What makes you think she'd tell me anything? This is Starbuck we're talking about . . . " He trailed off, and his father didn't bother correcting him. Maybe, Lee added silently, maybe it was Starbuck. And maybe she (it?) was something else entirely. But he didn't like to think about that, didn't like to allow that particular thought room to root in his brain. He was getting very good at this whole denial thing. The real Kara would have been so impressed.

"She's been asking for you." When Lee simply stared, Adama continued, "Every day since she got back."

"She took out five Cylon Raiders that day. Flew on my wing, all the way back to Galactica . . . " Back home.

"I know what happened that day," his father said evenly.

"But you still don't trust her."

"I trusted Kara, the real Kara, with my life. With yours, Lee. I don't know what that thing is."

"That's not how it works," Lee snapped. "Cylon aren't just copies. Or, there are copies, but there's no original. Don't you get it? That . . . woman . . . downstairs, she's as much Kara as the one we lost."

Kara's face, Kara's voice, Kara's memories.

Adama glanced up from his water glass, eyed his son unblinkingly.

"I should have guessed as much," he said finally. "You realize she could be a Cylon. You just don't care."

"That's not …" He let his voice trail off, a weak trickle that shamed him.

Was his father right? Was he so damned glad to have Kara back—in whatever form he could get her—that he didn't care who she really was? Didn't care that having her here risked lives?

"She would never do anything to hurt us," Lee said slowly.

"I know," Adama said steadily, "about the two of you."

A year ago, Lee would have been ashamed. He would have felt the urge to justify his and Kara's actions, even though there wasn't really a justification. I did love her, he mused. _Did. Do. Always._

"You could have told me."

"You could have figured it out," Lee shot back. "I'm your son, for Gods' sake. And Kara, she's . . . she was. You should have known."

He remembered it too clearly, the bright, white burn of daylight against alcohol-sensitized eyes. He had woken up naked, sunburned. The skin of his back and shoulders stung when he pulled on his uniform, and he'd reveled in the sensation. Gods', it was good to feel again—to feel something besides numb. He'd been so stupidly happy.

He had almost smiled to see his father approaching. He wanted to tell him. He actually thought the Old Man would be happy for them. And then his father spoke, and Lee lost something, a part of himself. Maybe the best part.

"You missed all the excitement . . . Kara got married. . . . went down by the river and got married."

He had a flash of Kara standing by that river, pale hair whipping across cheeks burnt purple from the cold morning air. And for a second, an instant, he pictured himself standing there beside her. The image of him cupping the nape of her neck, brushing his fingers through her hair, sliding a ring over her finger, was so vivid, so painfully tangible that he thought he might start crying, right there in front of his father and everyone. Instead he stared at a spot over Adama's shoulder, his eyes burning in the bright white light of day.

As if he and Kara could have that, could be that. As if they were so lucky.

"You were married, Lee," Adama said now, and it sounded like condemnation.

Dee. Strong, silent Ana. Studying him always with those clear green eyes and judging him unworthy. He _was_ unworthy. Apollo and Starbuck—maybe they belonged together, if only to save anyone else being stuck with them.

"And Kara was with Sam. You both seemed . . . content."

Content, he wanted to sneer. What was that worth? But, then, hadn't there been moments with Dee? Making love to her, his body cradled between her slim legs. Sleeping with his back to her, her arm a weight around his waist, anchoring him.

Moments when he had felt, Gods' help him, contented.

Did Kara feel that with Sam? Did they sit together at the end of a day, just enjoying the quiet? Or did she grab hold of Sam the moment he walked through the hatch at night, push him up against the wall and frak him senseless?

"I figured something was going on between you two after that stupid dance. When you nearly killed each other, I figured it out finally." Adama shook his head. "I guess that makes me pretty naïve. I just didn't think—"

"—that I was the kind of man who'd commit adultery? I guess that makes us both pretty naïve."

"You're putting words in my mouth, son." His father frowned. "That isn't fair."

"Fair?" Lee barked out a laugh. "Gods', Dad. What about this is fair?"

"Are you going to act like a child, Lee? Or are you going to help Kara?"

Am I here to help Kara, Dad? Or you? But, really, that didn't matter one bit. Only one thing counted now.

"When can I see her?" he asked when he was sure he could speak.

Adama swallowed the last of his water and set his glass down on the table.

"Tomorrow."

---

The hatch door was propped open.

Lee wondered if it was meant as a show of faith on his father's part. If it was a gesture, it was an empty one. Kara wouldn't get far if she tried to run—not with four marines standing at constant vigil outside her door. They eyed Lee with boredom, though he thought he saw one of them snicker at the sweats he wore in place of his uniform. Lee had found them stashed at the bottom of his locker, old relics from the would-be gift shop. He had drawn them up over his shorts, looked down and laughed to see the slogan printed in bold maroon type over his left thigh: Property of the Battlestar Galactica.

Deliberately ignoring the marines, Lee lingered in the hallway outside the hatch. He heard . . . laughter. His father's soft chuckle, the real, rare one, and Starbuck's brash-sounding snorts. He stepped into the open doorway.

They were playing cards, not Triad but something silly. A game played mainly by small children—one Lee and Zak used to play, in fact. The Old Man was winning, but Kara was letting him. Lee could tell by the slouch of her shoulders—a little too casual, too deliberate. Lee could almost always tell when she was bluffing, though sometimes he forgot to call her on it. She was bluffing now, bluffing and smoking a thin brown cigarette his father must have brought her. Lee watched Kara lie down her cards, the admiral barely inclining his head in acknowledgment of his win. The Old Man knew she was letting him win. He knew, and he didn't say anything to stop her, just raked the cards toward him with the side of one hand and started shuffling them all again.

Lee watched Kara poke out the tip of her tongue, savoring the bitter-sweet flavor of the cigarette. He had never let Zak win at cards, even when Zak wanted so badly to beat his big brother at anything. He should have let Zak win at least once.

His father had caught sight of him over his fan of cards. He laid the hand down on the table and rose. As he did, Kara looked up, too, and Lee took a moment to drink in the view of her.

She was thinner than he remembered. But then Kara cast such a vast shadow, it was hard to remember that she wasn't especially tall or large. She'd kick his ass to next Tuesday for thinking that, but it was true. He knew he was staring, couldn't quite bring himself to stop. It was such a relief to find her safe and warm, clad in a clean set of double tanks and too-big cargo pants. Her hair was drawn back in a short, stubby ponytail that stuck out from her scalp. She studied him for several seconds, and finally a slow smile spread over her face.

"Are you gonna come in or just stand there looking like a dipstick?"

Lee grinned and folded his arms over his chest.

"I'll leave you two alone," Adama said, closing the door on his way out.

---

They sat on the floor, points of contact at the shoulder, hip, thigh. His skin didn't burn where it touched hers. Nothing that cliché. He felt solid. Steady.

"What else?" Kara demanded, eyes gleaming, mouth parted just slightly in anticipation of what he'd tell her next. As though waiting for her turn to interject. He racked his brain for something she'd want to hear.

"Uh, I was Baltar's lawyer. I defended him in the trial of the century," he said, waving his hand in a dramatic flourish.

The sound that burst from her nose wasn't the least bit feminine or musical.

"Did you win?" she managed to ask when she'd caught her breath again.

"Of course." He puffed his chest and tried to sneer. "I always win, Kara."

"Hmm," she snorted again, shrugging her slender shoulders in almost-approval. In the end, though, she ruined it, crashing against him, breathing laughter into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It was too easy, too familiar, and he pulled away.

Kara leaned back on her hands and cocked an eyebrow.

"Look at me, Lee. Do you hate me?"

"No."

He wasn't going to ask her why. Why she died. Why she came back. Why she left him to cope with the guilt of failing her. He knew whatever answer she gave wouldn't be enough to satisfy him, sure as hell wouldn't make it any better.

"But you're angry."

"I'm not . . . there isn't a word for how I feel, Kara." Furious. Relieved. Forgiving. Needy.

"You wanna take a swing?"

Instead, he lifted a hand to her face and cupped her chin in his palm. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away, but stared back at him, unblinking.

"What happens now?" he asked.

And now she did pull away from him, pushing off the wall and to her feet.

"What do you mean, what happens? Either they believe me, or . . . " She shrugged, wrinkling her nose in that way she had. " . . . they don't."

He hated her then, had to count to ten before the red receded from the edges of his vision. The word "bitch" tasted like a burn on the tip of his tongue. He got to his feet, too, still raging though he thought he could control himself now.

"Wow, Kara. That's tough. You're tougher than pretty much anybody in the fleet. No, seriously, congratulations. You must feel so proud."

Any other time, and they would have thrown punches. Now they simply stared at each other. He wondered if they had matured, or if they were simply too tired for this. Too old.

"I'm just being realistic, Lee." Her shoulders slumped, though her fists stayed balled at her sides. "Way I see it, the Old Man lets me walk out of here of my own volition or else the president has a couple marines walk me to the nearest airlock."

"Gods, Kara." But some of the anger had trickled out of him. He let his head loll forward. His neck hurt from the effort of keeping it up.

"Just promise me you won't do anything royally stupid like walk out after me," she said.

"Stupid?" he said, lifting his head. "I think that the word you're looking for is noble."

"Well, you were always the smart one."

Suddenly he wanted to be sitting again. He slid down the wall to the floor. "Just shut the frak up," he muttered, but it was more weary than anything.

"Make me," she said, because she never did know when to stop. She followed him to the floor with another grin. He wondered if there was anything that could permanently curtail Starbuck's smile.

"Don't push me," he said, teeth bared.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Kara—"

"No, I like a challenge. Here's the million-credit question, Lee. Do you want a punch in the jaw or

something a little sweeter?"

He swallowed hard before answering. Gestured to the camera.

"They're watching, you know. Probably four marines sitting in a room somewhere."

She knelt between his legs, hands braced on his knees, leaning forward just enough that he could smell her. She smelled the same. Whatever they did to her, they got the smell right.

"Looks like someone's gonna get a free show," she said. He watched a drop of sweat fall from her hair, slide down her throat, and over the ridge of her collarbone, before disappearing under her tanks. He wanted to follow the path with his tongue and keep going. "Don't I get a welcome-home kiss, sir?"

Taking his silence for assent, she leaned in, one hand hovering over his heart. He shot out an arm and snagged her wrist, pleased when she startled a little. Tugging her hand to her side, he pinned it in place, leaned in.

He came apart a little when he kissed her. She tasted the same. He wondered if every Kara copy tasted like this, and whether it was a specific program meant to satisfy him, Lee Adama. Admiral's son and failed pilot/lawyer/husband. He felt a wave of guilt, and then she was opening her mouth and letting him inside, and everything was dark and warm and_ home_.

He almost whimpered when she pulled away, had to hold his breath so he didn't beg.

"Some welcome," Kara said. Her face was flushed, and he wanted to run his fingers through her hair and over the curves of her ears.

Then, suddenly, she was moving him, rearranging him the way she wanted. And that was so totally Kara that any doubts he might have had faded.

"Kara, what—?"

She settled against the wall, legs bent and knees hanging loose. He sat between her thighs, his broad back flush with her chest. He could feel her breath as though it were going through him, tried to match the rate of her inhales. Then her hands were on her shoulders, her fingertips applying firm, steady pressure.

"You really are a tight-ass."

He laughed, a sad, releasing sound, and let his head fall forward. Her fingers dug into the grooves of his neck and back, seeking out the worst of the knots. She was relentless, the pain almost too much at times. But she kept on digging and prodding until he felt like he could breathe without her showing him how. Something inside him opened, and he drew in long mouthful of air. After a while she stopped, her chin coming to rest on his shoulder.

He didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow, or frak, an hour from now. But in this moment they were both here. Alive. It wasn't enough, not even close, but he'd take it. He relaxed into her, their planes and curves slotting together.

She sighed against him, her hands coming to rest on his legs. If it had been any one else, he would have called it snuggling.

"You're disappointing a whole room full of marines," he said.

Kara snorted.


End file.
